Blossom of the Night
by cacodaemonic
Summary: The attic is dark, always dark. But darker still are the thoughts of the fifth Dollanganger child, wary and bleak, but still achingly beautiful, while the tiniest, faintest gleam of hope glimmers through. And this is the story of the Fifth, of the Blossom of the Night.
1. An Introduction

**A/N: I've always been enthralled by the Dollanganger Saga, and all of V.C. Andrews' works. I've wondered what it would be like if there was a fifth Dollanganger child, who wasn't quite as close to the others...and who questioned Corrine Foxworth's decisions but kept quiet and compliant, and wondered deep-down if they were really as sinful as the Grandmother said.**

 **But I've found two ways that I think I could explore this: through the eyes of Clarabelle Dollanganger, or those of Clarence Dollanganger. Both have their own similar, but slightly different stories to tell - and only one story will be told. And so, if I have any dear readers, it will be up to you to vote for me and decide whose story it will be. The first part of this chapter will be by Clarabelle, and the second by Clarence.  
**

 **I hope you all enjoy.**

* * *

It is a curious thing, how quickly one's life can turn on a dime.

We lived a good life, a happy life, my mother, father, two brothers and two sisters. We were the Dresden dolls, the seven of us the most beautiful, charming family in Gladstone, envied secretly by all. It was just as perfect on the inside as it was from the outside, if not more so.

Or, perhaps, that was what my siblings would have thought.

I was not the oldest of the Dresden dolls – that was Chris, not quite two years older than I was, nor the most perceptive – that would perhaps, be Cathy, not even a year younger than myself, or Cory, the youngest of us all. But Chris loved Momma so – sometimes, I thought, more than life itself – and Cathy was so utterly enthralled by Daddy. And Cory, so young as he was, couldn't begin to comprehend half the things he saw, and in any case, they rarely caught his attention for longer than an instant before he was off with his twin sister Carrie in their own fantasy land.

But I was, perhaps, less eager to please than my siblings.

Oh, I adored them with all of my heart, of course! Particularly Carrie and Cory, dear, sweet twins who were both bold and brave in their own way, yes, even quiet little Cory. But some circumstance of my upbringing (what it was, I could not fathom, for I had grown up in the exact same lovely house with the exact same loving parents that all my siblings had) had made it so that I was inexplicably more wary of everything around me.

Momma said it was because of my friends, "those boys," she would say, shaking her head with a delicately concerned smile on her face. "Those classmates of Clarabelle's, they roughhouse and swear and behave in the most unbecoming ways. Clarabelle, darling, I do wish you would be friends with girls your age," she would sigh, but she would smile and gently smooth down my waves of flaxen hair that were identical to her own. Momma was the only one that used my full name regularly, for it was too long, too ungainly to be used all the time, particularly in combination with our surname. Christopher said it to tease me, sometimes – it sounded awkward and clumsy, just as I felt when I was around the girls my age that Momma so wanted me to be friends with (and of course, I felt ever so unattractive beside Cathy, with all the grace and poise of a prima ballerina).

Boys, I thought privately, were much easier. If they didn't like you, they spat at you, or struck you a glancing blow, or sneered and insulted you – and that was that. Girls were complicated.

Daddy said it was simply the way I was born. "She's got her own pride, Corrine," he would say, laughing as Momma fretted. "She's a determined girl, that's all, and she won't let life cheat her out of what she deserves. Isn't that right, Clara?"

Daddy called me Clara when I was born, because Clarabelle had been much too long and dignified for a squirming, wailing infant. But Chris, who had already been speaking but hadn't quite mastered it yet, couldn't manage even that and called me "Clare, Clare," instead. And when Cathy came along, she, too, called me Clare.

I preferred Clare. It was short, charming, shouted across the street "Clare, come ride bikes with us," and exclaimed in admiration "that's wonderful, Clare," and I insisted on it until even the twins called me Clare. That was, unless they wanted something, and then it would be "Cla-a-a-ry, Clary," plaintive and insistent.

Perhaps it was neither of these, but rather, the first year of my life that had made me so. I hadn't been planned, Daddy had confessed, but he assured me that I was a welcome blessing all the same. But no sooner had I been born for about a month, did Momma become pregnant yet again, this time with Cathy.

Momma's pregnancy with me had been hard, they'd said. I'd been born a little too early, a little too small and thin. So when Momma had become pregnant again so soon afterwards, the doctor had advised her to take it easy. It must have worked, for Cathy was the most perfect little girl that our parents could have hoped for – charming and brave and graceful and lovely. But when Momma had been pregnant, she couldn't possibly care for me at the same time, even just-born as I was. Babysitters had taken that job.

Perhaps that was why I never quite adored my parents like my siblings did. Perhaps I wasn't as close to them as they were, perhaps they had never lavished the same amount of attention on me as they did to the others – unintentionally, of course, and something I never blamed them for. But I had never been quite as close with them as my siblings were, and perhaps this, this was why I could see their shortcomings just the slightest bit clearer.

And perhaps this was why I was the slightest bit less shocked when we were stowed up in the attic of Foxworth Manor.

* * *

It is a curious thing, how quickly one's life can turn on a dime.

We lived a good life, a happy life, my mother, father, two brothers and two sisters. We were the Dresden dolls, the seven of us the most beautiful, charming family in Gladstone, envied secretly by all. It was just as perfect on the inside as it was from the outside, if not more so.

Or, perhaps, that was what my siblings would have thought.

I was not the oldest of the Dresden dolls – that was Chris, not quite two years older than I was, nor the most perceptive – that would perhaps, be Cathy, not even a year younger than myself, or Cory, the youngest of us all. But Chris loved Momma so – sometimes, I thought, more than life itself – and Cathy was so utterly enthralled by Daddy. And Cory, so young as he was, couldn't begin to comprehend half the things he saw, and in any case, they rarely caught his attention for longer than an instant before he was off with his twin sister Carrie in their own fantasy land.

But I was, perhaps, less eager to please than my siblings.

But I loved my family, of course I did. There were times, of course, when Christopher and his effortless, glowing brilliance would grate on me (for I would never be as tall and handsome as he was, never as fast or as strong or as good at sports), and when Cathy and her graceful charms would make me feel awkward and ungainly and clumsy – but I loved them dearly all the same, despite it and because of it. But some circumstance of my upbringing (what it was, I could not fathom, for I had grown up in the exact same lovely house with the exact same loving parents that all my siblings had) had made it so that I was inexplicably more wary of everything around me.

Momma said it was because of all those books I read, "always with his nose in a book," she would say, shaking her head with a delicately amused smile on her face, her concern only slightly betrayed by the sheen in her blue eyes. "My clever boy speaks to books easier than he does to other children. Clarence, darling, I do wish you would be friends with children your age. You could play with Christopher's, if you wanted, I'm sure he would welcome you."

"Aw, Momma," Christopher would object, every time, almost even before I would shake my head. "He wouldn't be able to keep up. Sorry, Clare, but it's the truth," he would add, though I was never offended – Christopher was never deliberately malicious. "Besides, Clare has lots of friends. He just likes being alone better."

Christopher had always called me Clare, when he was young and couldn't manage the other half. And later, when Cathy came along, she did the same, and others caught on until it was only adults and those stuffy sticklers for propriety that called me by my full name. When I was younger, classmates would tease me – a girly name, Christopher, are you sure that's not your little sister, what kind of a name is Claire for a boy – and Christopher would flush with anger and Cathy would spit at them with razor-wit and a scathing tongue. And I learned to hit back, to lash out with my own sharp insults and with fists if necessary. So you see, I was not nearly as helpless and quiet as Momma seemed to think I was.

Friends were all fine and nice, I thought. But the boys my age were so dreadfully immature, and the girls my age giggled and teased whenever a boy came near. Books were easier, for there was just so much to learn, so much to know. Only Christopher seemed to understand this as well, but even he would come home late from school, his golden curls (that were identical to my own) dusty with the dirt from the fields, his face flushed with exertion as he recounted the games he and his friends would play.

Daddy said it was simply the way I was born. "Clarence was born a thinker, Corrine," he would say, laughing as Momma fretted. "He's contemplative, that's all. He knows what he wants in life and watches to make sure he isn't cheated by it, isn't that right, Clarence?"

And then he would ruffle my blond curls and grin, and I would smile back and nod to agree with him.

Perhaps it was neither of these, but rather, the first year of my life that had made me so. I hadn't been planned, Daddy had confessed, but he assured me that I was a welcome blessing all the same. But no sooner had I been born for about a month, did Momma become pregnant yet again, this time with Cathy.

Momma's pregnancy with me had been hard, they'd said. I'd been born a little too early, a little too small and thin. So when Momma had become pregnant again so soon afterwards, the doctor had advised her to take it easy. It must have worked, for Cathy was the most perfect little girl that our parents could have hoped for – charming and brave and graceful and lovely. But when Momma had been pregnant, she couldn't possibly care for me at the same time, even just-born as I was. Babysitters had taken that job.

Perhaps that was why I never quite adored my parents like my siblings did. Perhaps I wasn't as close to them as they were, perhaps they had never lavished the same amount of attention on me as they did to the others – unintentionally, of course, and something I never blamed them for. But I had never been quite as close with them as my siblings were, and perhaps this, this was why I could see their shortcomings just the slightest bit clearer.

And perhaps this was why I was the slightest bit less shocked when we were stowed up in the attic of Foxworth Manor.


	2. Wonders and Worries

**A/N: I've decided to go through with Clarence, just because I started writing from his point of view and decided that I liked it better. There is some canon dialogue in here that I absolutely do not own.**

* * *

The atmosphere in our once-pretty, jovial home was one of quiet, hurried need. I envied the twins, who were oblivious to Momma's tight, tense silence as she packed – unlike Christopher, Cathy, and me (though looking back, I doubt we had any idea how truly grave the situation was). The three of us scrambled to obey Momma, throwing clothes and a few games into our two suitcases, our most precious belongings and nothing else.

Other than clothes, the only thing I packed (tucked safely away at the bottom of the suitcase) was my most cherished possession: a beautifully embossed book, bound in fine leather. Daddy had bought little gifts for all of us, when he was alive, but when he found that I was disinterested by the knickknacks and novelties he brought me, he had saved up for months to present me with a book that had immediately enthralled me, _the Complete Sherlock Holmes_.

Christopher frowned when he saw me place it into our suitcase, ready, no doubt, to scold me for bringing something so heavy and that would take up so much space (he had left behind his own books to make room). But when he caught sight of the cover, he only turned away and continued rummaging for the twins' clothes, saying nothing. Perhaps he was remembering, as I was, the day Daddy had given it to me, his eyes bright with excitement as he placed it into my hands and the wide smile on his face when my eyes had gone round and wide with wonder.

I had hugged him so tightly that I hoped to become enveloped by his warmth, his strength, his laughter. He had ruffled my hair and lifted me easily up onto his shoulders (I had been seven, but I was still small and thin enough that it hadn't been any effort at all), until I was laughing and clutching tightly to him with one arm and the treasured book with the other.

Oh, how I missed him…

Christopher helped Momma drag the suitcases to the train while Cathy and I managed the sleeping twins: Cory in my arms, Carrie in hers. They didn't even stir as we settled them onto our laps – we had only four seats in our compartment, so Cathy and I pressed up against each other so that the twins could have more room to sleep across our laps.

Cathy and Christopher began a quiet, eager conversation of what they would do with the money that the grandfather would give Momma. I, exhausted as I was, fell into a doze, lulled by the sounds of their hushed voices and the rocking of the train.

I awoke when Cathy nudged me, disoriented and aching and feeling as if everything so far – Daddy's death, Momma's news – had been but a fevered dream.

"It's our stop," Cathy said. She was carrying Carrie in her arms, who was nestled against her chest with her rosebud lips parted slightly. "I can't carry them both," she added, looking a little helplessly at Cory, still slumped against the seat.

I nodded, taking Cory into my arms. He didn't even stir as I shifted my hold on him, the twins utterly and blissfully oblivious to the world as Cathy and I followed Momma and Christopher, who were wrestling with the unwieldly suitcases.

The walk was a long, eerie one. There was a certain sort of beauty, I supposed, to the stillness and quiet of the night, the moonlight streaming in past the thick leaves of the forest. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself into the serene darkness, even after Cory and Carrie were jostled awake and made to walk, complaining, alongside me and Cathy.

Our arrival jolted me out of my dazed reverie. I remember how enormous and lofty the house appeared, how intimidating it was, towering above us and outlined starkly against the dark night. And as we lurked in the terribly tense silence, the entire being of the house seemed to become even more imposing as the promise of a cruel, malicious grandfather and a cold, unloving grandmother lurked behind the heavy doors. Momma twisted her delicate white hands, her face shadowed in the dim moonlight as we circled around the edges of the house to a back door, all but invisible against the wall of the house.

The door swung open suddenly, making me jump and take a stuttering step backwards. Ordinarily, Christopher might have laughed and teased me for it, but his eyes were wide, too, as cowed as I was by our grandmother.

We were led into the house, past an impossibly narrow staircase that made me shudder with unease. Christopher seemed to notice and brushed his shoulder against mine in the silence – he'd always seemed to be under the impression that he had to protect me, ever since we were young and I was his much smaller baby brother. I was nearly thirteen, too old to accept comfort from a fourteen-year-old brother, but all the same, it was a gesture that I appreciated in the rickety darkness of the stairway.

Our journey ended at a large bedroom, lit only by a single lamp. But instead of looking at my surroundings, I took the time to study our strange saviour.

She was tall, taller than Momma – and seemed even taller than Daddy had ever been, even though I knew it couldn't be possible. Where Daddy had been tall and strong and kind, this woman had hard lines on her face, a firm set to her mouth and a cold glint in her eyes as she regarded the six of us on the doorstep.

I held my breath, fearful, hopeful, that she would look at us and see us for who we were. That when her gaze skipped hastily over Christopher, it was because she knew at first glance that he was healthy and strong, the cleverest person I knew, besides perhaps Daddy. That when her lips thinned when she stared at Cathy, it was because she had noticed her graceful dancer's figure and her bold charisma. That when she sniffed at the sight of the twins, leaning heavily on each other and blinking sleepily, that it was because of their innocent, beautiful charm.

Her gaze seemed to linger for a second on me and I flushed uncomfortably – I was small for my age, very slender, unlike Christopher, who was athletic and popular. I lowered my eyes immediately, terrified that she would look into me and see something to condemn me before we were even given chances to speak.

"Just as you said, Corrine. Your children are beautiful."

There was something about her voice that chilled me to the bone. I glanced at Cathy, who met my gaze uncertainly, and then at Momma, whose face was very pale.

"But are you sure they are intelligent? Do they have some invisible afflictions not apparent to the eyes?"

Momma cried out in offense, a sentiment Cathy seemed to echo, though she didn't seem to dare speak up. She glared at the severe old woman for a second before crouching down to unpack the twins' clothes, and Cathy quickly followed suit. Carrie and Cory were placed into one of the two beds, their flushed cheeks pressed together in their sound sleep.

Already I could see a problem. I was small, yes, but there was no way that Christopher, Cathy, and I would all fit in one bed. The grandmother's steel-grey eyes flashed with cold disapproval as she looked at the three of us. "Corrine, your older children cannot sleep together in one bed."

Momma's face flushed, though I wasn't quite sure why – and nor was I sure why the grandmother sounded so scornful, why disgust bled through her voice. "They're children, mother. They are all innocent to the world, even if they are not to your nasty, suspicious mind! Give them separate rooms, then, or at least separate beds. God knows this house has enough of them!"

The grandmother's look was so sharp that it seemed as if it sliced Momma open to the bone. "This is impossible. This is the only safe room in the house, and furthermore, there is neither enough room for another bed, nor is it possible to bring another one up without causing suspicion. Put the girl with the younger ones, and the two boys together for now," she ordered. "I will think about this and devise another arrangement if necessary."

We were informed that we did not truly exist, not in the eyes of the grandfather, and so, not in the eyes of the rest of the world. It was our job – Christopher, Cathy, and I – to keep the twins quiet and complacent. We were ordered to keep ourselves hidden, to control ourselves, to stay put and never leave from the attic.

As the grandmother said this, my fear surmounted and grew until it took all I had to keep from trembling. It was a familiar sensation, but not a welcome one – the world was all at once too much and too little, the sound of Momma and the grandmother's voices were fading into the distance as if coming from very far away, but anxiety ached in my chest and made me gasp breathlessly for air.

"Clare," Christopher whispered, perhaps fearful that the grandmother would hear. "Clare, calm down, it's okay. Momma's going to win over the grandfather and then everything's going to be fine. Hear me, Clare?"

I shook my head mutely, trying to focus on Christopher's even breathing and Cathy's anxious blue eyes above me, until the tightness in my chest lightened fractionally.

It could have been mere moments later, it could have been hours, but the next thing I knew, Momma was leaning over us with gentle, pleading eyes.

She murmured to Cathy, then Christopher, kissing their foreheads. When she came to me, she seemed to hesitate, her eyes bright and concerned.

"Dearest Clarence, your father did so love you, as do I – and don't you ever forget it. Be brave."

Momma said her good-nights to us, and we clung to every word, even as exhausted as we were.

"Good night, Momma," Christopher said – and she was gone, leaving us alone in the attic.

Cathy settled in beside the twins, curled around them as if she thought that she could shield them from the house itself. Christopher climbed into our shared bed first and shifted over to make room for me, and I lay down beside him.

"It won't be so bad," Christopher said quietly. He and Cathy bantered back-and-forth over my head, but I was too tired to join in.

Everything today had been so much. My eyes ached and so did my chest, and I felt utterly drained and exhausted.

"Go to sleep, Clare," Christopher said softly, sounding suddenly much older than his fourteen years. "Everything will work out in the morning."

I was too tired even to nod, only managing a mumble of acknowledgement. With Christopher's back pressed up against mine, and knowing that Cathy and the twins were close by, I finally managed to relinquish the weight on my chest of all my built-up and frantic emotions, and give myself up to dreams.


End file.
